Mirror Shards
by Kitcat39
Summary: When Yami Bakura looks in the mirror, he sees the wrong face stare back at him. Living in someone else's body can take a toll on anyone's sanity, especially when they don't have much to begin with. Warnings for angst, blood, self injury, Millennium World spoilers.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh**  
**Warnings: angst, blood, self injury, spoilers for Millennium World/Dawn of the Duel arc**  
**AN: I've been meaning to do a piece on Yami Bakura for a while, since he is one of my favorite villains ever. I didn't expect it to get so angsty and weird though. FYI, Yami Bakura will be referred to as Bakura throughout this fic.**

Mirror Shards

Mirrors really were amazing objects. People in modern times took them for granted, but to a being like Bakura, who had several centuries under his belt, they were practically magic. He had been no stranger to then back in Egypt, having snatched his share from some of his wealthier victims, but back then they were nothing more than highly polished bronze disks. It didn't seem right to compare that to the reflective glass that pervaded practically every building in this era. Hell, his landlord had two, one in the bathroom and one in the bedroom, more than most ancient Egyptians could dream of, and even that was on the low side compared to some of the other places he'd been in.

With that in mind, Bakura couldn't help himself from staring at the bathroom mirror. The wrong face gazed back. Now, he knew logically that this body looked much different from his original body, and that it was really a minuscule price to pay for a second chance at revenge against the pharaoh, but he found it difficult to reconcile the image of this pale, skinny, half-grown boy with how he viewed himself.

He raised a hand to the glass, watching his reflection imitate him. It was a weak hand, covered in pallid skin unmarred by scars and callouses, fitting for someone who didn't have to work for his keep. He held up the other one and smirked at the scar emblazoned on it, a tangible reminder of his landlord's last futile attempt at gaining control. Though he had been defeated in that battle, no mere mortal could keep him down for long.

Bakura let the scarred hand fall to his neck, unbuttoning his shirt and running thin fingers down a muscle-less chest and too-prominent ribs until they rested against the Millennium Ring, the gold warmed by the heat of his stolen body. The Item almost seemed to hum under his touch, the prongs sliding over more scars, more symbols of his host's pointless struggle for dominance. The fingers touching it twitched and Bakura snatched them back, forever wary of his host's attempts at fighting him. He braced himself against the sink, ready to engage in a battle of wills with his young namesake, but it never came. It was just a muscle spasm. He didn't fault himself for being cautious though, since that was how he had survived in the harsh days of Egypt.

He slumped forward, letting his forehead rest against the cold surface of the mirror. His host's white hair floated at the edge of his peripheral vision like a morning fog. Bakura often found his gaze fixating upon those colorless locks. He wondered whether his original hair, which was gray and coarse, would have been so soft and pale if he had been born in this age, where soap is plentiful and strong enough to wash the sins from your soul. Either way, this new hair irritated him. It was too long and it always got in the way.

His breaths fogged up the mirror's surface, making it seem like he was peering through a mist. He could almost pretend that the face staring back at him was just some stranger, and in a way it was. He barely knew Ryou Bakura, though quite frankly he didn't want to. The boy was just a tool, a stepping stone on the path to the Millennium Items.

He glanced at the mirror again and felt an unexpected rage rise up within him. It burnt through his veins, searing through his stolen body and into his very soul. He didn't quite know why he was so horribly angry, but just looking at the reflection of the face that was him and not him fanned the flames to the point where he lashed out blindly at the cause of it.

His hand was bleeding. The pain wasn't hitting him yet, but he could see the blood falling in fat drops onto the broken glass that lay scattered across the dull white tiles. The vivid splashes of red brought back memories of a long time ago, of red patches in the pale desert sand and red soaking into an equally red coat. The shattered pieces of mirror reflected the present, bringing him back to the now. A thousand broken faces stared back at him accusingly.

As if in a daze, Bakura reached out, carefully picking up one of the shining shards. He gazed into it and saw a pale, sweaty face, barely recognizable behind a thick curtain of too-white hair. He grabbed the offending locks and pulled at them viciously, the rage once again tearing at his soul. Then, in a flash of reflected light, the hair was gone, sliced off in a fit of spite. He watched as the strands floated slowly to the floor, seeming to shine with their own light for a brief second before falling into the thick, congealing blood. He raised the mirror shard to the next section of hair and did it again. This time he accidentally nicked himself, scoring a thin bloody line along his neck. He honestly couldn't bring himself to care. The simple act of cutting hair was giving him a measure of peace and control that he hadn't felt in centuries. Once, twice, three times more he hacked fat chunks of white from his head, until finally something told him that it was just right.

He held up the shard and smirked at his new haircut. If he could ignore the unnatural paleness of his visage he could pretend that this was his face, his body, his life. Something still wasn't right though. He frowned and pressed the razor-sharp edge to his cheek, right below his eye. He hesitated for a moment, a slew of strange worries seeping into his brain, but in one quick slash it was done. An explosion of pain burst down his face, making his mouth gape open and catch the fresh flow of blood. It dripped down his cheek like he was crying thick, coppery tears. It hurt as much as it had the first time he had received it, if not more do because he had dealt it with his own hand. He touched it, tracing along the gentle curve of the wound. The pain was worth it, he decided, because when he looked into the mirror again, for the first time in long time he felt like everything was as it should be.


End file.
